Torn Away, Torn Apart
by Whisperwill
Summary: Episode 56-centric.  Hakoda has lost a wife; his children have lost a mother.  How can their torn family deal with its crippling loss?  One shot.


**Disclaimer: I don't own _Avatar: The Last Airbender_; someone else who's very lucky does. I didn't create it; that credit goes to the two geniuses and my role models, Mike DiMartino and Bryan Koneitzko. And I'm not making money by posting this story.**

**A/N: Original completion date: 3/13/10. I always wanted to know how Sokka, Katara, and Hakoda dealt with the death of their mother and wife, especially after I saw "The Southern Raiders." This story is my take on how they all adjusted, if in fact one can _ever_ adjust. The horizontal lines represent passage of time/scene change, because the point of view is the same throughout: Hakoda's. Please review once you've read!**

**Rated T for graphic images and character death.**

**Torn Away, Torn Apart**

Hakoda was running faster than he had ever run in his life. Despite the fact that his sealskin boots were plowing through snow, he was almost flying over the ground. There—his family's igloo. And little Katara standing in the doorway. Amazingly, his feet began to pound even faster. Hakoda finally reached her and stared over her shoulder. What he saw made his body freeze more effectively than the cold ever could.

Kya, his lovely snowflower, lay in a slush of blood and snow. Burns disfigured the upper half of her dead body, ugly mars on her perfect brown skin. Her torso was all but melted away.

Not sure whether he was about to choke, vomit, or sob, in the end, Hakoda just stood there with his dead wife and living daughter for several breaths that wheezed from his throat. Then his son came running up from behind.

"Dad, the Fire Nation raiders are gone," Sokka reported, sounding too businesslike for his ten years. "Bato says they won't bother us again. He wants you to help with the . . . the wounded."

Hakoda listened with distant shock. The wounded? What about the dead? What were the people of the village going to do about _them_? What was _he_ going to do? "Dad?" Sokka's question hung in the air, and Hakoda heard him start to come closer. _No_. Sokka would not come into the igloo—Hakoda would not let him see the carnage that lay in the snow. At last he had the impetus for movement, and he was turning, tugging Katara by the arm. As though his touch had unlocked a pool within her, she, very suddenly and utterly, broke down and wailed. Sokka's eyes went wide, and he stared at them with unease that was quickly turning to fear. "Katara— Dad—what's wrong?" he asked in a whisper. His breathing quickened. "Wh-where's Mom?" Looking beyond Hakoda at the igloo, he suddenly made a dash for it. Hakoda reached out in a strangely mechanical fashion to catch his son around the waist.

"Sokka, your mother's been killed." His voice was heavy, with far more weight than two children should ever have to bear.

"_What_?" Sokka cried, appalled. He began struggling to get free, but Hakoda kept his son clasped against him. "Let me go! Let me _go_!" Sokka screamed, while his attempts to free himself grew more and more desperate. "I can help—!"

"No, Sokka, you can't help her now," Hakoda told him quietly. "She's dead."

"But . . ." Sokka choked on whatever he had been about to say and sagged against the support of Hakoda's arm. Soon his quiet sobs joined his sister's high-pitched cries. Hakoda hugged them both against him and sat in the snow until he was numb with the cold. Or was it grief?

Bato's appearance on the scene brought him out of his trance. He had obviously heard the news, for he stared at Hakoda with weary sorrow. "I'm sorry," he said simply. Hesitating as though he had more that he wanted to say, he instead chose to move on to the business at hand. "We have to attend to the wounded," he reminded Hakoda softly. "And give proper memorial for the dead."

"No!" Sokka snarled, ripping himself away from Hakoda and sprinting for the seashore. Katara, after letting out one last, dry sob, took off running, too, headed for the ice cliffs. Hakoda watched them go, unable to muster up much emotion at the moment. Then he stared blankly at Bato. His friend sighed, stepped up to him, clasped his hand, and pulled him to his feet.

"Come on, Hakkoda," he prompted him quietly, "we have work to do." He gripped Hakkoda's shoulders with a grip that, despite being so tight that it was painful, was somehow bracing. In an almost callous way, Hakkoda began perfunctorily giving commands.

"Get the wounded into the big community tent," he ordered. "Tell the women to get water, rags, pelts, and care for them. Get the men on rebuilding detail as soon as possible—we can't spend the night in hole-filled homes."

"And the dead?" asked Bato in a murmur.

"That's our duty," Hakoda answered grimly. "Take the shrouds, wrap them, put them by the sea. When we're done, we'll send them on their way." Bato nodded and set off to deliver the orders. Hakoda set his jaw, steeling himself to go into the igloo again. He crawled through the door and fetched a long piece of blue fabric that bisected the sealskin tent in the corner. He and his wife had spent many nights sleeping behind it. He would honor Kya by sealing her into it.

He kept his eyes averted from her corpse, even as he wrapped her stiff body in the material. He wanted to remember her the way she had been before the revolting burns ruined her body and life. Having sealed her up in a cocoon and fastened it with sealskin thongs, he shoved her, cold and motionless as a slab of ice, out of the igloo and carried her to the shore. As he came back into the village, many of the men and women stopped to hug him, clasp his hands, or squeeze his shoulder. He was grateful for their compassion. His people would not abandon him in his hour of need.

There were nine more dead besides Kya, all of them men. Hakoda smiled wryly. While the men of the village were falling in battle, his wife had died defending her home. He had chosen well when he married her, so long ago, back when they were together and happy.

It was the time of sending-off for the dead, and the families of those who had given their lives stood, cold and forlorn by the sea. There were only two missing: Sokka and Katara. Hakoda hadn't even noticed their absence from the village, and as he realized how long they'd been gone, he was disgusted with himself that he hadn't gone looking sooner. There was a whole South Pole to get lost in; they could be anywhere by now!

"Bato, tell me if you see Sokka or Katara," he called to his friend. "We can't start without them." Turning, he jogged toward the ocean and hurried along the ice bordering the frigid waters. This was where he'd last seen Sokka run to, and if he knew his son, Sokka would probably be somewhere along the shoreline. At least he hoped so.

Hakoda went up and down the shore, even to the extremities where walls began to hide the village from view. He was just starting to get frantic when he spotted Sokka with his canoe, attempting to shove off into the water. Hakoda made his way over to him at a run. Somehow, now that Sokka was here in front of him, all he could feel was anger.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded to know, yanking Sokka's hands roughly away from the canoe. "You know you're not supposed to go out alone!" Sokka, shamefaced, opened his mouth to say something, but Hakoda didn't let him get that far. "Do you think I want to lose you, too?" he snapped, grabbing his son by the shoulders and giving him a shake. From the stricken way Sokka blinked at him, Hakoda knew he'd gone too far. He sighed and enveloped his son in a platypus-bear hug. Although he couldn't take back his rash words, he could tell from the way Sokka clung tightly to him that his son understood. He stood up with Sokka still in his arms. Now to find Katara. He swallowed down his fear and hurried back to the village. She _had_ to be all right. He wasn't going to fail her, too.

His stomach finally relaxed when he got back to the village and saw Bato leading Katara toward him. "Look who I found, climbing around on the ice," Bato said with a smile.

"Katara!" Hakoda exclaimed, relieved. He knelt in the snow and hugged her with his free arm. Wiser from his mistake with Sokka, his voice was chiding but gentle as he scolded her, "You know you shouldn't climb in the ice cliffs. It's dangerous."

"It's my fault," Katara whispered into his ear, so softly that only he could hear it. "I-it's my fault she died." She fell against him and let out a long sob against his chest.

"Shhhh," Hakoda soothed her, stroking her head. "Katara, it's not your fault—it's not _anyone's_ fault." And it was true, he realized. None of the Water Tribe was to be blamed for what had happened, not even Hakoda. The thought gave him a minuscule bit of comfort.

"The man wanted the Waterbender," Katara moaned. "He wanted _me_! But Mom said—"

"Katara, you know your mom would do _anything_ for you," Hakkoda told his daughter solemnly. "And whatever she did . . . she'd do it again in a heartbeat to protect you." He kissed the tears on her cheek. "I know," he whispered to her, "because I'd do the same thing." He smiled at her through his pain and pulled her close again.

* * *

><p>Each canoe bore a dead body—and the family of the deceased one—out to sea. The women and Hakoda paddled steadily until the village was so far distant that it was gone from sight. There, they spoke of the lives of those departed souls, how much they had given to others when they lived, how in the end they had given their very lives to protect those they loved. Women wept, their children standing forlornly, tearfully at their sides. Hakoda still had no tears in him; perhaps that was why his children refused to cry, either. Sokka had to put a lot of effort into holding himself back, shutting his eyes tightly and biting down on his lip. But Katara, like Hakoda, stared out at the water with eyes that were neither seeing nor crying. Kya's mother, as usual, had a dignified way about her, even while the tears coursed down her cheeks.<p>

When the time came for them to drop the bodies into the water, Hakoda didn't cling to his lost one, like many of the women did before they gave the bodies to the sea. He hated the stiff feel of her, all the warmth and life gone from her forever. He lifted her over the side and let her go quickly, hastening to get it over and done with. With a deep sigh as if a burden had been lifted from her as well as from the canoe, Gran-Gran placed an arm around each of her grandchildren's shoulders. Katara gazed, almost thoughtfully, at the ripples that lingered after the splash. Sokka didn't acknowledge his grandmother's touch, his breath coming quickly in and out, still not quite crying. Hakoda's mouth twitched in an almost-smile. His little warrior was being strong. He spared just enough time to pat both of them on the head before taking up the oar again. The rest of the families quickly followed suit. None of them wanted to linger at the funeral site.

* * *

><p>Hakoda sat staring at the floor, the same as he'd been doing for the past hour. He was unable to fight off inertia, despite the fact that supper was long overdue. It was Kya's job to prepare the food—he was the one who was supposed to bring it home. And he couldn't bring himself to do her job, or to face the common sense that told him that he would have to shoulder <em>both<em> jobs from now on. Children weren't meant to grow up with only one parent—especially not his children. Katara, so happy and bright, so gifted, the last Waterbender in the Southern Tribe. Sokka, so young, yet so determined to be a great warrior someday. They deserved better than this, better than a torn family, better than a father who couldn't be both parents for them, no matter how hard he tried.

Dishes clanked together, sounding so much like the times when Kya prepared supper that Hakoda's heart felt wrenched in his chest. He looked up in a daze to see Katara standing on tiptoe, just managing to ladle stew into a bowl in her hand. Seconds later, she gave a squeak and nearly dropped the bowl before she set it hastily down—the heat had seared quickly through the bowl, taking her by surprise. Hakoda watched while she ran to get a mitten on and hurried back to the pot, stirring the contents with care before filling up two more bowls with her stew. Had she made it herself? Hakoda wondered. How did she know what to do? Who had told her?

"Supper is ready!" Katara called out. Hakoda and Sokka crept out of their respective corners to join her on the pelts around the stew pot, wearing identical blank expressions. Katara handed out the bowls, still being inexplicably cheerful. "Hurry and eat it before it gets cold," she urged them. As Sokka lifted his bowl to begin slurping it down, he spilled some of it on his parka. Hakoda watched with a pang as Katara immediately moved to dab the spilled broth away with a bit of cloth. "You should be more careful, Sokka," she admonished him, sounding exactly like her mother. "If you hadn't been wearing your coat, you might have burned yourself." Sokka nodded meekly and went on eating, fine with letting Katara play the mother Arctic hen. It wasn't until Katara turned to look up at him hopefully and say, "Do you like it?" that Hakoda remembered the bowl in his hand. Quickly he began to sip it, and was amazed. It was good. Sea bud stew with minced seal meat, just the way Kya made it. How many surprises did his little Waterbender have up her sleeve?

"It's delicious," he heard himself say with a barely-concealed break in his voice. Katara's smile lit up her face. They ate the rest of the meal in silence and, as soon as they had finished, Katara gathered up the bowls and cups.

"I'll wash the dishes," she announced. Sokka and Hakoda watched her as she put snow into a basin to melt it over the coals next to the cooking pot. She set to work scrubbing the dishes in the water, and Hakoda wondered if she realized that she was humming one of Kya's favorite songs. When she was done, she looked around at them and said, in that same take-charge voice that was so new to her, "We should get to bed; we have lots of work to do tomorrow." She looked up at her father for confirmation and added, "Right?"

"Yes, that's right," Hakoda answered, his voice almost hoarse, as though he hadn't used it in days. Life in the Water Tribe revolved around work. Katara had caught on to that, and even though she was only eight years old, she had her own passel of chores to do like everyone else. It looked as though, from now on, she would have to shoulder twice the workload and more, something a girl her age should never have to do. But then, losing Kya was something none of them should have to endure.

After noticing that his children were watching him, waiting for him to do something, Hakoda sighed and placed the lid on the stew pot. "Come on," he said to them tiredly. "Into the tent. Get your coats off." They seemed encouraged when he told them what to do. He supposed it was the only thing in their lives that had stayed the same—and it was _going _to stay the same. Katara was fast taking over the work that, until now, her mother had done. She would be the one to take on the woman's work; Hakoda wouldn't have to be both parents for them, after all. He would remain their father. He would be strong for them.

"Sokka, you can't sleep with your boots on," he heard Katara chiding her brother from inside the tent. "You'll get the pelts all slushy. Here, I'll help you get them off, and you help me with my moccasins." Hakoda found himself smiling briefly as he slipped off his boots and parka. He blew out the oil lamps and scooted into the tent, which was now one big room, with the fabric divider gone. He could sense Sokka and Katara staring at him uncertainly in the darkness.

"Go to sleep now," he told them. As though they had only been waiting for him to say it, they curled up next to one another in the corner. Hakoda lay down on the opposite side of the tent. He would have to hang a new piece of material tomorrow to function as a wall. But what was the point? So that he could sleep alone beyond the fabric? With a sinking heart he realized he had many lonely nights ahead of him to get accustomed to his wife's death—if, indeed, he could ever get accustomed to it. He was still expecting her to crawl in beside him and curl into the curve of his body, her breath sweet on his ear.

He lay awake for a long time before hearing a sound that made his stomach tighten painfully: Sokka's muffled sobs. His heart nearly broke as he heard Katara whisper,

"Don't cry, Sokka." She was attempting to comfort her brother, but her own tremulous voice gave her away. "D-don't cry; i-it'll be all right. . ." Then she started to cry, too.

Hakoda pushed himself up and went over to them. "Come on, you two," he whispered, gathering them into his arms. He returned to his pelt and lay down again. For tonight, at least, he wouldn't have to sleep alone—none of them would. His children nestled against him and sobbed into his chest, sending pain coursing keenly through him. Finally, he couldn't hold himself back. He placed his hands on the back of their heads, making sure that their faces were pressed tightly against him.

Only then would he allow his silent tears to trickle down into his beard.

_~The End~_


End file.
